


The Dark that Died

by Babyb26



Category: Pocahontas (Disney 1995)
Genre: Demonic Possession, F/M, Gen, Haunting, Horror, Love Triangles, Mystery, Paternity Issue, Possession
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:14:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22064605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Babyb26/pseuds/Babyb26
Summary: After nearly 20 years John Smith journeys back to the New World and to a new life. Looking for redemption and solace, he tries to reconcile his past while facing a new adversary unlike any he's ever seen-something incarnate and bent on trying to destroy him and those he's trying to protect.
Relationships: Pocahontas/John Rolfe (Disney), Pocahontas/John Smith (Disney)
Kudos: 2





	1. The Awakening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DogsWrite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DogsWrite/gifts), [a_partofthenarrative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_partofthenarrative/gifts).



Chapter 1-The Awakening

Chapter inspired music: Bones by MsMr Album: Secondhand Rapture 

The winter night was as cold as bone and dark as ebony. The only light that night came from a pale tinged moon, which made its way through the smoke holes of longhouses. Silent was the night, only the cries of babies and lovers pierced through the walls of the homes. The smell of animal fats from lamp pots hung thick in the air, as they mingled with the scents of sacred oils and rubs. The silence of the vast dark night was shattered with one long piercing cry that spoke of great pain. When men’s shouts and footfalls reached the desolate longhouse, there was no reply of aid or welcome, only that visceral sound that the dead or dying make in what the warriors likened to war. Only the bravest of these men dared reach for the woven reed door. The door moved with the ease of a brown hand. That long cry stopped abruptly when the men dared entered into the hut. One lone hide covering prevented the men’s admittance into the next room, which was lit in a blaze of orange light. Beneath the long hanging covering, red rivets flowed toward the native men. Although trained to face the mightiest of their countrymen and the dirty pale wolves that had invaded their shores, what the native men found in that dead night, that foreboding longhouse was- incarnate. 

“I am giving you this task not because I choose, but because you are now ready and have bad windfalls it seems,” the chiding elder voice echoed through the marble and gilded walls of the sanctuary. As usual, this answer made no sense nor was it what he truly wanted to hear. “It’s been…but why?” his words of protest came out leery and slightly anguished, which was usual for him. The younger man’s questions were cut off before he could truly begin to question and he sensed that this would now be a trend in his life. “I know you haven’t been outside these walls much in fifteen years, but they say you’re ready and I readily agree.” A skeptical look pulled across his face; he was still too worldly in his opinion. However, a smile danced across the aged Anglican priest’s face, “I know that look!” The old man knew what cards to play and deep down he knew he was called, he just didn’t know why. He didn’t know the journey his life would take next, as it had in his life before, but this time he knew better. He'd be damned if he failed, he owed her this much. “Son I tell you are ready to face those demons of your past.” There wasn’t much for him to say, “tis be His will.” Turing from his friend and mentor, he prepared to cross the vast expanse of the nave but halted when he heard his name call. “John Smith… The Father is with you.” Turning back to his a forefronted his task, he pushed through the ancient wooden doors into the sunlight of the day. Headed to a world, he vowed he’d never return. 

The outside would had grown since he last venture outside the gated and crumbling brick walls of the eight hundred-year-old Abby, one of the few old Henry let be. As he made his way to quay he sensed the changes of the world and himself. The Magdalenes, with rouged face and half-covered peaks, still smiled and called to him as he passed. However, his forty-six, come January forty-seven, year old body did not move as quickly as it once did nor did he hold appealing the slight streaks of cream, which dulled his vibrant hair. Cloistered and secluded he had studied the word of God and man, prayed and asked forgiveness for his a great many sins, and willed away all thoughts and longings of that previous life. As he had studied and worked to fill the arch in his heart he had aged, yet to him, the outside world progressed forward and had also blossomed into ever deeper darkness. In his opinion, which no one at the Abby seemed to count, he had succeeded- he was or had been ready- that was until they told him of his placement and push back into the world of pain that he’d sought shelter from. Turning on to the quay he was left wondering, why? Of all the countries, territories, and lands to be discovered and proselytize to in the world, why would they send him there? Reaching the Mary Mora he certainly had no answer, but then again his will also was no longer his own. 

The ship was dank, dark, and dismal and for much of his life, this boisterous vagabond world had been home. On silent nights in the Abby, he recalled the rolling waves that had once rocked him to sleep and caressed his wounded soul-he had missed it. However, twenty years older the lust for adventure and to see beyond the next horizon had passed; the world of the ship no longer had its appeal. Siting his satchel on the narrow cot he turned to discover the space he would call home for three, and if the wind was not with them nearly four, months. John Smith was delighted to discover a bookshelf, a small writing desk, and a mirror. Surly Reverend Paul would not call this amusement vanity? Walking over to tarnished mirror he stared at himself, the white band collar around his throat and its two tails trailed falling downward on to a still broad chest. His black robe oddly accented his frame, which was still visibly muscled in the dark garment. As he stood at the mirror he fought to understand his transition, which had brought him closer to God but had left no visible mark upon his person. They had said he was ready but was he? Was he still that man of fifteen years ago, trapped in grief and despair, or had he truly surrendered himself? Could he do this, go there? Looking at his reflection he found his answer. Turning, he gathered his modest belongings and headed to the room’s door. The door moved inward as he touched the handle. 

“Do mine eyes truly deceive me mate? Are ye truly a black robe Smith?” He recognized the brogue laced voice that called to him, it had been seventeen years but it rang true and clear as a bell-Lon. The once burly red head man stood at the door blocking his path. Fifteen years ago, that would not have been an issue, but now it was different and it seemed his God was keeping him aboard this rotting ship for a reason. Like expected twins another voice chimed in, one he also knew too well-Ben. Now, with the two men - his former friends- blocking his way, escape was futile and the need for flight left him. The satchel in his hands fell back onto the bed and he conceded. “Tis gotten into ye mate,” Lon’s Manchester accent was still thick even after thirty years of living in London. Could he tell them? Could he tell them why he turned to God to forget her? He placed a warm hand on their shoulders and answered their question, “Tis me boys. Is me in the flesh and robe.”

The waters had been calm for the most part and unlike his last journey across the vast Atlantic, only one storm had threatened their lives. Unbelieving until that storm, Lon and Ben had given him grief over his new chosen profession. However, during the storm, when not only their lives but their souls were at stake, they had professed and clung to his faith in those treacherous moments between wave and crest. Leaning against the wooden railing a smirk crossed his face, Reverend Paul would be happy to know he took no pride in their reliance. For them, like he, they were shocked at the transition that yet left no visible mark except for on the soul. They had not so much doubted him, but deeply questioned how he, a man who knew every pub and brothel in London, could give up the flesh and drink so easily. Truth was, on cold nights he craved like any man, but his taste for flesh ended nearly twenty-one years back when he walked away and she, Pocahontas, chose the love of another. After her, what woman could tempt him? What woman could replace her in his heart? None, of this much his mind, was assured. 

After many nights filling in the lost time of their lives to him, Lon having been cased back to England after a botched sheep-stealing swindle in his native Scotland and Ben having traveled again to Jamestown and failing disastrously as a tobacco farmer- and yes, he bristled at the mention of Rolfe’s trade- Smith opened up as to why the brotherhood of the cloth became his home. They understood and tried in their small ways to prepare him for the journey ahead. “John have you heard she’s….?” Smith cut Lon off so fast he surprised himself. Lon seeking to force him to what to know said, “Now mate, this is so as when you get to Jamestown ye won’t be surprised, she had…” Lon had almost completed his sentence when John Smith abruptly left the room and made his way out onto the deck. Standing against the weathered wood and sea Smith pondered; did he really run from all matters of the heart? In the past give him a Turk to kill or a mountain to climb and he would do it, but tell him then or now about the woman he once loved and he runs. What does this make me? Both Lon and Ben caught up with him after this last encounter and seeing the not quite dead killing anger in his eyes, wisely chose to not be throttled by the kindly handsome middle-aged priest. This knowledge brought a wider smirk to his face, they’d let him figure things out once he got to Jamestown- Reverend Paul would call the smile on his face pride.


	2. The Welcome

“Make ye way men, land ho!” 

The call had been made and John Smith with one pack over his shoulder and one in his hand climbed down into the rocking row boat. Like every other town he ever visited, he smelled it before he ever saw it. Gone was the smell of freshly hewn pine and turned earth, now thick scents of shit and garbage filled his nostrils, as was befitting a town of Jamestown’s size. The wooden palisades that his sweat and blood went into building stood tall and imposing. He saw the banner men wave them passage inward and the twelve pounders thundered in response to the welcome, he shuddered. Too long had he been from these seafaring traditions or had he become easy of fright with old age. Of either choice, he could not shake the odd mix of adventure, trepidation, and hope that ran through his body as the small barge pulled toward the city’s dock. Screaming at the top of her lungs a graying woman grappled with the men pushing their way in front of her. 

“No …..damn you, you filthy lot…..Let her go!”

Deaf to her cries the men pushed their way toward the only entirely sound building in the settlement. 

“Chiktas…Stop!” 

The woman’s cries were loud enough to distract and the sounds of struggle were odd enough in the bustling street to peek the curiosity of the disembarking men. 

“Please… She believes in your God! Stop!” 

Hearing as sharp as always, the hunched over clergy man and former soldier found the sentence strange. Shifting from his position he turned toward his companions and lifted his satchel upward. 

Seeing the question in his eyes Ben waved off the disturbance,“tis part the de way ery now and again, the drunken lots!” 

Ready to dismiss his hearing, John Smith turned toward his companions and prepared to make his way to Jamestown’s inn. 

“For the love of your God, let her go!!!” and then the loudest scream he had ever heard made its way to his ears. 

The sound was high and youthful in tone and relayed the deepest part of fear that he had ever heard. The sound pierced his ears and heart, and his hesitation diminished. Figuring that the poor creature making that banshee of a wail needed peace, the bag in his hand tumbled to the ground and he ran to that frightful sound. Lon and Ben, whose ears were firmly covered by their thick meaty hands followed suite, just as they always had. The trail of John Smith’s robe followed behind him and slowed his rushed progress, but now determined in his endeavor and responsibility-as the town’s newest priest- he hurried his pace and found the calamity in front of him. Three men, tall and powerful struggled to keep the fighting woman in their grasp. Turned toward her side and her wild main rolled in the dirt. The older woman who had first caught his attention with her pleas fought to pry the flaying woman from the men. 

“Peace be still.” The command was not strong in nature nor had he entirely yet figured out what the situation quite was. 

However, when one of the men backhanded the forty odd year old woman, the anger that he worked very hard to quell and do God’s work, manifested itself. Running at the men John Smith with base and brass shouted, 

“PEACE BE STILL!” 

And the tussling of bodies, except for the women that the men held, stopped. Tired the men paused and the woman rolled from their arms in a sicking loll toward the ground, she lay silent but jerking on the ground. The men, Jamestown settlers stood and bent in respect to the cloth, what had they been about to do her he wondered? The older woman gained her footing and smashed her small had toward the nearest brute, but her hand did not connect with flesh, yet lay still and caught in the grasp of a softened callused hand. 

“Peace be still I say!” the order came out terse and strained, the woman held her peace. 

Moving to look upon her rescuer and he facing her full on, he and she crossed the bridge of memory together.The night had been long and the collar around his neck was soaked with his sweat. Rubbing the perspiration from his face, John Smith sat up and reached for his prayer book. Turing toward Revelations he pondered the meaning of this day. Eye to eye they had stood, he could no longer remember her name, but he remembered her all the same. She too startled by long forgotten memory stood wide eyed in awakened shock. Then the silence was broken when a wet shuddering grasp raced his eyes toward the ground. The woman in the dirt continued to move and moan. Could it be? It was impossible. Reaching out his hands he pulled the pained woman to him and she stilled in his arms. Her hair, covered in dirt and other things, was draped across her face hiding his view. He was afraid to reach out and touch her face, to remove that hair. He wouldn’t have if that other woman- that Nakoma, yes that had been her name- had not pleaded.

“Help her!” and he had. 

Hope against hope, to see her again, he removed the hair from the injured woman’s face. 

“…Now and at the hour of our deaths. Amen.”

John Smith finished his night prayers and lay back down in his bed. He moved into the pillow below his head, it still held her scent. Heaven above forgive me, but his spirit and heart lifted when he removed that hair. Smith had longed for things and the woman he had given up and had banished from his heart. God above she had been beautiful.   
John Smith’s breath stopped in his chest and his hand trembled. He could hear Lon and Ben calling him from above, but he was transfixed and stilled by that beauty-that same beauty, but different.

As he lay, his breathe came out in a shiver, “Father forgive me.”

He had not known and perhaps if he had acknowledged Ben and Lon’s forewarning he could have avoided this, but he had assumed that they knew what he had, and to his shock he found that he and they were on two different gossip paths. The woman convulsing in his arms was her-the same, hauntingly beautiful lithe figure that hunted his dreams. However, the young woman was also no older than eighteen. Confusion marred his face and he looked back toward his friends, the girl’s head rolled on to his black clothed chest in struggle. Her hand uncoordinated in reach gripped his collar and cross, and pulled him closer in the fight for breath. To him she was a goddess and his thoughts were blasphemous. 

“God help me,” he whispered toward the heavens.

Her plea for life had been heard and his travels had taught him how to fight the spasms of the body. He moved her to the small church, whose foundations and mortar were solid. A stick to the tongue and mouth from Nakoma had saved her out on the dirt, but a concoction he learned to make in the East calmed her tremors. She had lay in a bed that later became his. Now in reflection and prayer, he realized the full meaning of Ben’s warning and Lon’s face after they left the ship. The men said the natives thought that the girl was possessed and was taking her to the church in order to drive out a daemon she didn’t have. For John Smith, the revelation of who the woman that lay in his arms was-so alike the mother- was a bitter sweet welcome to this forested kingdom.


End file.
